


The End

by Zebow



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dream Smp, Dream Team SMP Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 17:48:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zebow/pseuds/Zebow
Summary: George finds out something about Dream.
Kudos: 17





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> this just came to me after reading a bunch of george visiting dream in prison
> 
> to clarify in case you don't know: this is not a real plot of the dsmp! i just wanted to imagine what it would be like if it was.

Though it isn’t much, the hair that hangs off his head loosely is pushed to the unfavored side by the strong breeze the day decided it was going to have. George tries to flip it handless but his attempt is unsuccessful, so he resorts to using the hand that isn’t holding the letter he was sent. George is left feeling sorry for himself, thinking his hair wants to get away from him, too.

The letter is crumpled, almost to the point of illegibility, but George knows his handwriting. Knows it by heart, knows it like he knows every part of him. Like he's memorized their every interaction up to this point. How did it get to this point?

_I hate it here._

George recalls exploring biome after biome with him, running and jumping simultaneously, each smile he let up wider than the last. Laughing until it hurt, until he had to cover his ears to prevent himself from being infected by his contagious laugh.

His laugh. It’s music to his ears, and George swears he doesn’t have any other favorite song.

_I’m so bored._

He recalls a simpler time, when their only problems were nonsense, such as what they were going to do to survive the night, scouring for food and jumping up to hit every white, grey, and black sheep they could find.

_Tommy thinks I’m crazy. Do you?_

He recalls when they would playfully scold Tommy and whoever else dared to tease them about their close friendship. George scoffed to himself. Well, of course it would be to himself, he was the only one here. 

He was sitting as close to the prison as he was allowed on the dirty, worn out ground, brain too loose yet too crowded to think about anything else, like how he was dusting up his armour the more he sat.

He found out early that he wasn’t able to be as close as he would like, so he’s settled for a nice area near the water. The first few days he was here he would spend all day just staring at the entrance. Maybe waiting for something to come out.

_Why haven’t you come to see me?_

George recalls and berates himself for giving up after one lousy block of blackstone. He thinks that maybe it would’ve been worth it.

He knows.

_Have you missed me?_

George doesn’t know why he still waits. It’s not like he’s coming back. But he sits here anyway, even though his fool of a heart knows, in every universe, what their fate will be.

_Where are you?_

The moon watches with sympathy as the letter is crumpled, ripped, _destroyed_ at George’s feet in a moment of impulse. He doesn’t even notice his quivering chin or rapid blinking until tears threaten to enter the middle his chapped lips. They tasted like the salt water he was forced to drink when he ran out. Of course, he could’ve just gone and asked somebody for water, or better yet, get his own, but George was every kind of drained.

He’s recalling so much he doesn’t notice Sam coming up behind him, who gives himself a pep talk before uttering, as loudly as his nervous self can manage: “Hey, um, George?”

It comes out even more strained than he thought it would. Understandably so, as this news would not only be difficult to receive, but to give.

George doesn’t move. Why would he? He’s been on the same three blocks for days, only changing his position to block the sun from invading his eyes. He used to like the sun, used to like the beam of warm light on his face. Now, it only reminded George of _him._

Everything does.

George knows he should hate him. The amount of anger he feels should overwhelm him, but no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t hate Dream.

And he does try.

He tries so hard, because he hates the way they look at him. He hates the pitied stare in people’s eyes when they finally suck it up and find George to tell him it might be alright.

He knows their only reason for doing so is pity, but he takes it anyway. 

Sam tries again. “It’s about Dream,” George turns his head so fast at the mention of Dream’s name he nearly gets whiplash. “there’s news.”

It takes absolutely everything in George not to let out the biggest smile every area on the server has seen in weeks.

He hops to his feet excitedly, pushing past the unfamiliarity of the atmosphere and the wobbling of his legs. He tells his body to be tough, to let him have this, the thing he’s been waiting for during the weeks that only felt like longer days.

He ignores the voices in his sleep deprived head that are telling him it isn’t good news.

Sam notices him trying to hide the hopeful look on his face with a deadpan expression, but disregards the fact that it doesn’t work at all. He has to be strong, has to just tell George the news he’s been trying to avoid for hours, has to just stop _procrastinating_ and do it. _Do it,_ his mind rings, _say it and get it over with._ He’s lying to himself and knows it, but can’t find it in him to care. Sam has to force himself to stop imagining the life that will inevitably pour out of George’s eyes, while he reminisces about the comfort and warmth Dream once brought-

“He’s dead.” Sam says flatly.

George’s glowing armour is not enough to protect the pain he feels in this moment. The dead grass looks more dead, the moon gets so dark it disappears, and every cricket suddenly knows what is better for it, and shuts up.

_He’s not, he’s not, he’s not dead, he’s not…_ George stands with his head down, repeating the words in his head as if they’re a prayer, like somehow it will bring him back.

  
  


_It took me a long time to realize how important attachment was. But when I did-_

George lost him a long time ago.

_I cut my attachment. I lost my friends, I lost my items, lost everything that was important to me. I lost everything. I_ had _to lose everything._

George has learned from Dream not to let his emotions show.

So he doesn’t. And thankfully, Sam believes it, and starts to walk away after hesitating to add something else.

George feels numb.

* * *

Months later, the server has slowly but surely been brought back to its original light. George’s new house is built in the place he camped out all that time ago. A grave rests behind it, suffocating in piles of flowers only from George. Every day he would bring a new one, which isn’t as difficult as it used to be since he started a garden.

Sapnap visited him once, after weeks of battling with himself over whether he should. It was during the day, which George is rarely aware of due to keeping his shades drawn.

The look on Sapnap’s face when he saw George was something that would stain his brain for years to come. He looked absolutely ruined.

They often used to spend hours talking together, sitting by the prison during Dream’s first days until his absence finally got the better of Sapnap. “Do you think he’d do this for us?” He had said.

George’s silence was enough of an answer for him. So, he stopped going, leaving George with his own wretched thoughts.

Another time comes to mind, when he caught someone he never would have imagined at Dream’s grave. It’s not like he has to try to hear every noise; he already can. All day he sits, alone with his thoughts, leaving only to deliver the flowers and look at the moon. Though he did stop after realizing it was too painful knowing Dream wasn’t able to look at it as well.

On the days they weren’t able to be together, they looked at the moon with satisfaction, with promise, knowing the other was thinking about them too.

George heard shuffling outside, which happens often, but he usually disregards it, as he knows it is probably just a zombie trying to get his attention. This time was different though, George heard someone trip, and then coughing after. He gets up and moves the shades just a smidge to see... 

Ranboo?

He was carefully setting down a blue-as-the-sky cornflower. There was a look of impassivity on his face, which George didn’t understand, because if he didn’t care, why was he there?

George decided not to go out and greet him. If he wanted to be noticed, he would have knocked on the iron door.

The last thing he remembers is when he went into the community house for the last time, the day after he heard the news.

When he saw Tommy.

He was sitting on the stairs, not doing anything in particular, just reminiscing about every single memory that took place in this cardinal house. Then he saw Tommy. He was with Tubbo, and even though they were outside, far away, George just knew they were celebrating.

Tommy caught his eye. He almost looked- sorry? It seemed like he was going to say something but George didn’t let him, he just shook his head and looked back down.

That memory shook him back to the present. Taking a deep breath, George recalls for the last time, their very last conversation. Dream was being escorted away.

_“I’m sorry, George. You must hate me.” The last sentence is so low, almost to a whisper, but he hears it. He always does._

_This surprises George. His eyebrows scrunch down and his mouth leans open. He doesn’t know where to start. Hate Dream? How could he?_

_Dream’s head is low, and George swears he’s never seen him in a more vulnerable state._

_“Dream.”_

_His head is only lifted a tad._

_“Hate you?” George says, repeating his inner thoughts. “I don’t hate you, Dream. I could never. In fact-” All of a sudden he is met with emeralds, and for once in his life, he finds it difficult to maintain eye contact with the man. The look in his eyes is something he’s never seen in him before; he can’t place it._

_Even though George knows Dream is the only one looking at him, he feels an entire nation’s eyes._

_“I love you.”_

_Immediately George notices, clear as day, Dream’s voice stuck in his throat, but he’s patient. He can wait for Dream to recover._

_Though it came out unnerving, George has never meant any statement in his life more than this one._ _The absence of regret never wavers._

_Dream finally finds it in himself to move from his position, but stuns George when he turns to leave instead of responding to his confession. He forces himself to stop, and turns back around to tell George his first thought when he heard it- “Don’t.”_


End file.
